


In Your Arms, I Live Anew

by JonsaInTheNorth



Series: We Rise Together [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon returns from the war a changed man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Arms, I Live Anew

**Author's Note:**

> Long delayed, but I hope the ending to this series brings some satisfaction to its readers.

The darkness in his eyes has tossed the light from his soul, thrown it from their battlements and claimed him as a vessel for its agenda. The party, so small it can barely be called that, trudges through the gates of Winterfell the same morning that the sun finally rises. Happiness should rule the day, but all Sansa sees is the hurt that claims Jon.

So many of the men that left with him are not here now, Free Folk and Dothraki, Dornish and Westermen, all dead or something worse in the land of ice around them. He commanded thousands in the War of the Dawn, but now there are scant hundreds clambering at her gates. It takes all her strength to restrain from throwing herself into Jon’s arms, to keep from taking him up and curing whatever ailment has caused the shadow that is the man she loves.

When she approaches, treading carefully as if the snow is broken glass and she is not wearing the worn doeskin slippers that are upon her feet, Jon stops his steps to stare at her. The gaze is hollow, empty of any warmth that she has found there in the past.

Sansa steps slowly forward, just as the rest of the people of Winterfell do. They look to their lady for an example in how to handle this confounding sight, how to address the men who have given and lost so much. She eyes Jon, carefully, searching for any sign of recognition or tenderness.

Finally, his eyes alight upon hers and the corners of them twitch. It is the closest thing to a smile on anyone’s face round her. Sansa throws herself at him, wrapping her arms roughly round his neck and clutching him tight.

“Sansa,” he croaks, her name falling from his lips like a ringing sword, heavy and ringing. He pulls at his wife like he is drowning and she is his only hope to float and live again.

His arms wrap in her furs and cradle her solidly against his torso. Even through the layers of her fur, and his mail, boiled leather, and fur, she can feel that Jon is thinner with less muscle against his bones. She knows that the same affliction has struck her in this Long Night, it has grasped all of them in its viral clutches and killed many more, but it is still strange to think of strong, healthy Jon being reduced like the rest of the world.

She pulls back, after what feels like hours, feeling the presence of her sister behind them. Arya cannot even muster a shudder at their intense display of affection, so thrilled is she to see Jon safe and well. Their embrace is not as long, not as intimate, but it is still close all the same. Jon is back to them, perhaps neither whole nor complete, but he returned.

Sansa looks around then, trying to see who else has made it back. In the distance, she sees two dark flecks against the horizon, but she does not see Ghost. She looks to Arya, who has Nymeria constantly by her side. The look on her sister’s face is enough- the white wolf is gone.

“Dany?” She asks, muffled words against the cold that still presses round on them from all sides. Despite her wariness in the beginning, she had gained great respect from the Queen, and perhaps even friendship.

Jon shakes his head, and finally there is something in his eyes. But it is a great and grave sadness that his entire person has succumbed to, from his trembling hands to the wilted frown upon his lips.

“She’s gone. Her and Tyrion both.”

She waits for more words to come, but they do not. Instead, he hobbles away from them both, heading towards the castle. “I, I’d like to sit by the fire awhile. Feel some kind of warmth.”

Sansa wants to tell him that she can warm him, it is her duty as his wife to share her heat, and it is a duty she would serve gladly. She watches him take short steps away from her, her heart breaking with each stomp of his worn boot.

Arya’s hand brushes against Sansa’s forearm. “Give him time. I can’t imagine what it was like out there. He’ll need you soon enough.”

She can only hope that Arya is right, and returns to the keep with a lowered head, happiness knocked out of her.

Sansa throws herself into her duties as ruling lady of Winterfell, having hot baths are drawn up for the battle-hardened men, food prepared and delivered, fires burned blue in every occupied room, blankets handed out, and clothes lent out as she and her ladies go about patching whatever is salvageable.

She does not seek out Jon, does not see him until late that night. There is little food left in the castle, so while the men are fed there will be no feast for a long while. He is splayed in their bed, staring at the canopy over his head.

“Jon?” She asks, voice shaking. Jon sits up and stares at her unblinkingly. Sansa sighs and begins to undo the ties to her dress, letting it pool around her. She undresses to her small clothes. Still, he does not move. Reluctantly, she wraps herself in her thick nightrail and joins him beneath the blankets and furs after she blows out the two candles.

Sansa touches his arm hoping he will do something, anything to recognize her. Jon grabs her hand and holds it, but gifts her with no familiar squeeze or rub of his fingers. She falls asleep like that, with him but not near him, touching but not feeling him, loving him but not feeling loved.

She wakes suddenly in the night and reaches out into the cold emptiness besides her. Sansa rises quickly and spots his hulking figure standing before the fire, arm balanced on the wall above the hearth that he stares intently into. “Are you alright, love?”

He grunts, low and deep in the back of his throat, as his only response. Sansa rises and follows to where he stands. Her touch is light against his bare shoulder, but he rolls it off anyway. “Go back to bed.”

“What’s wrong?” Her voice cracks.

The sting of pain is in her belly like she is being sliced in two when he growls, “Nothing.”

“What’s wrong?” She asks again.

She moves around to face him, and sees the contortion of his face. She looks at him until, finally, he meets her gaze. With the long look they share, Jon crumples to the ground. His knees collapse beneath him and his vision returns to the fire. A strange noise comes from the back of his throat, loud and low and long, a death cry.

“Jon, I’m here for you.” She takes his head in her hands. Falling besides him, Sansa pleads, “I’m your wife. Please, let me in.”

Then: he weeps. Quiet tears, delicate like snowflakes, that drag across his chapped cheeks to fall lightly against her fingertips where she clasps his face to her chest. Despite the gentle touch of salty water on skin, each drop is like a falling avalanche, crushing Sansa’s spirit but reinforcing her determination to nurse him to wellness again.

“I held onto that last good memory, through all flurried storms and harsh winds, through the aching hunger and killing cold.” He shivers against her, uncontrolled, as if just the memory can call up the Others to come after them again. “I dreamt of your bright hair standing out against the white of your maidens cloak when I slept, envisioned the small feast and all the trappings with it as hunger gnawed at my stomach, saw your smile as we danced each time I fought to keep myself alive, tasted your sweet skin against my tongue whenever I grew cold and lonely.”

Sansa strokes his sweat drenched hair, pushing it back from his equally sweaty forehead. She kisses him, and Jon grabs her wrist in his hand and holds it like he may never let go. “You saved me, Sansa, even without being there, you saved me.”

“And you saved all of us.” She nestles herself against him, hoping that the touch of their skin may bring him back to her. He wraps himself around her body, and she feels, now even more than earlier, the muscle that has left him. “Jon, you saved everyone. Thank you, from me, from the world.”

“It wasn’t just me.” He struggles to say the words, but slowly they come. The tales of Tyrion, fighting valiantly astride his dragon until he fell from the beast. Stories of Daenerys, who flew into the light at the end of the world that stopped the fight and returned the dawn to day. He tells them all, of small heroes and great ones, quietly against the shell of her ear in this cold night.

The fire crackles and Jon whispers, and when morning comes they do no leave. He holds her as she holds him, together as one, husband and wife, lord and lady, lovers together.

“I love you. I love you, I love you, love you, love you.” Sansa murmurs against his skin, when finally he kisses her soundly like she had wished he would when first she saw him. He says it back, a thousand times, and Sansa knows this: the Long Night may have taken much, but it could never have broken this, the love forged in war and want, and if it can survive than it can rebuild whatever else is missing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
